


Human Error

by Skypewriter



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Post-His Last Vow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-14
Updated: 2014-02-14
Packaged: 2018-01-12 08:19:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 12,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1184024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skypewriter/pseuds/Skypewriter





	1. Chapter 1

“It’s going to be okay, Sherlock.” 

Mary eyed Sherlock quizzically, glancing back and forth between him and John. “Moriarty always had his ways, didn’t he? He’ll contact you, he’ll do something… you shouldn’t worry so much.”

Sherlock glanced up at John, looking for a sign of agreement or disapproval from him, and was given a blank stare. So typical. That was all Sherlock had been getting from John since that bloody phone call from Mycroft on the plane. In fact, that was all John had been giving him for quite a while now. Mrs. Hudson glanced between the two of them with sympathetic awareness. Sherlock tried a different approach.

“And what if that form of contact includes murdering someone? Blowing a building up? Something worse than a clip on the television? There’s no way to know. He’ll want me to contact him, he’ll want –“

“Patience was never a virtue of yours, brother mine.” Mycroft’s voice slithered into the middle of the point Sherlock was trying to make. “Without knowledge of his whereabouts I don’t see why you think mulling over reaching out to him would make any type of difference. He was always so good at playing you.”

Sherlock felt his apparently lackluster patience wearing thin. They didn’t understand. “After what happened last time, based off of what we all knew were Moriarty’s intentions, I’m not going to take any risks at letting him have the upper hand. I have calculated out several different scenarios in which he might – “

This time it was John who cut him off. “Sherlock, there’s no way to deduce anything right now based off of a clip with his face on it. He’s not leaving you any clues because he knows you’ll torture yourself looking for some. Mary’s right, the most we can do is wait.”

Sherlock felt his temper rising. There was no way to explain to them what he feared the most. He had done everything he could to make sure Mary was not a threat to John, to make sure she felt that she wasn’t a threat to John, either; he had involved Mycroft, he had ordered protection around their flat, he had done everything… and yet, they still didn’t understand. They weren’t aware of Sherlock’s desperate attempts to show John how much he cared for him, his indirect, meticulous processes of exposing the dangers in John’s life and sorting them out for him, what it all meant. They didn’t see how much farther away John was drawing from him, how Sherlock attempted so many different ways to win John back. The drugs, the cases, even John’s exposure to his wife’s secret – none of it worked. And now, he was clawing at the edge of their crumbling bond in an agonizing effort to win back John’s presence, and once he lost that, John’s affection, and once he lost that, John’s attention. Now that was waning too. The blank stare, the mindless agreement with Mary… Sherlock felt trapped, a feral animal in a cage, fearing that in a final effort to make John understand how important he was to him, Sherlock would lash out viciously, ruining all of the precautions he’d taken to ensure John’s happiness. 

John cleared his throat. “Sherlock, Mycroft is right. Moriarty wants you to act like this.”

“Act like what?!” Sherlock snapped. 

“Act like the world is falling around you when literally nothing is happening.”

“You don’t GET it!” Sherlock finally lost his temper, his voice raising to a shout. “Nothing is HAPPENING? ANYTHING could be happening. I made sure it was stopped last time but that was because I knew about it!” _All of your friends will die. _“This time, I DON’T. This time, the only way I can go about protecting you is giving constant caution to the situation because I’M IN – “__

The door slammed. He had literally fled the room when he heard himself begin to say what he meant. He could not. He absolutely could not. 

_Because I am in love with you._

_John will cry buckets and buckets. ___

__Sherlock stormed down the stairs, calling a cab and clambering into the back as he tried to calm himself, panicking not only about what he almost said, but what could happen to John if Sherlock continued to let his longing consume him. By the time he felt he had sufficiently assessed the only option he had left, the cab had stopped in front of Bart’s._ _

__~_ _

__In what?_ _

__“He’s in what?” John said, staring at Mary. She returned his puzzled look. John was beginning to question Sherlock’s sanity._ As if that’s something I’ve never done before,_ he reminded himself. Casually, he glanced up at Mycroft, and then Mrs. Hudson. 

__They had the same look on their faces._ _

__It was a look of understanding, but not an understanding for John. Instead, it was an understanding for Sherlock. Glancing at the door, then at each other, Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson finished Sherlock’s sentence for him with a glance. And John caught it._ _

__“Oh… god.”_ _

__The silence was heavy, and Mycroft was the first to break it. “You really have to have some type of disability to be completely unaware of what has been unfolding directly in front of you for the entirety of your residence here at Baker Street.”_ _

__John stared at Mycroft, gaze eventually flickering to Mrs. Hudson, whose sad expression confirmed what Mycroft had said._ _

__John said quietly, “I suppose he and I will need to have a chat when he returns.”_ _

__“You think he’s coming back?” Mycroft snapped. “He’s left. He’s going to go fix the problem he created. And it’s for the same reason it’s always been.”_ _

__“And what’s the reason?” John’s voice was barely above a whisper._ _

__Mycroft leaned down towards him. “To save you.”_ _

__“Where is he, then?” John felt a rush of anxiety in his chest as he began to understand what was happening._ _

__Mycroft straightened back up, sighing tetchily. “He’s probably where he left you hanging the last time.”_ _

__Now it was John who had vanished out the door with a slam, without so much as a backwards glance at Mary, whose eyes were cast to the ground._ _


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock stood, balanced on the ledge, the backdrop of London putting him on display as he precariously peered down at the street. John stopped in the doorway at the entrance to the roof at the other end, stomach dropping at the sight of Sherlock perched on the same ledge from which John had watched him do the unthinkable such a long time ago. Mind racing now, John was seeing the same scene fold out once more, except this time, he was on the rooftop with Sherlock. John inhaled sharply, telling himself it was not that moment in reenactment; this was a new perspective, and he would make it a new outcome. But before he could say something, Sherlock spoke sharply.

“The outcomes I had predicted for every confrontation I dreamt up of that caliber were absolute nonsense, Mycroft.”

John, about to take a step forward, paused. Sherlock thought it was his brother who had followed him on to the rooftop. Even in a moment of raw abandonment, of a hopeless tearing of emotional dejection, Sherlock didn’t expect it to be John who would approach him, attempt to alleviate the situation. And after everything Sherlock had done for him… John’s heart dropped farther in his stomach. 

“Everything I had pictured, envisioned, dreamed, planned – so stupid. Complete error. What was he going to do? Rush into my arms? What was he going to say? ‘Oh Sherlock, Mary was a joke, a bad dream, it was always you,’” Sherlock bitterly mimicked John, voice deepening with regret. “And here I am, once again, abandoning the truth for some awful form of procrastination. Is this what love is like? Procrastination? Is that all you can do, when you know the thoughts are not the same, the feelings won’t be reciprocated…”

Sherlock’s voice broke. _Say something,_ John pleaded with himself. _Prove him wrong_. Everything that had happened within the last half hour was surreal, begging the question for John if there was anything he could possibly say that could compete in terms of strangeness with Sherlock’s tirade back at Baker Street. 

“And yet what would you know, dearest brother… have any advice about goldfish? So ironic though, when in all ways do I belong to him and in no ways does he let himself belong to me. I’ve gotten myself into this trap. There’s got to be a way out of it. Last time it was to save John from a sniper. Maybe this time it’ll be to save him from me.”

“Stop.”

John’s voice cut through the warm gusts of wind sliding across the roof. Sherlock froze, his body tensing at the unexpected voice. 

John continued, picking his words carefully. “I didn’t know how long I’d let you go on, but if you’re going to even let yourself think about the last time you were in a fix up here, I have to stop you.”

“John, I –“

“No.” John sighed heavily. “You’ve done enough, Sherlock. You’ve done so much, for so long. And if you think I can’t see how hard you’ve worked to make sure I’m happy, then you’re wrong.”

Sherlock turned to face John, shifting precariously on the ledge, and John felt panic well up inside of him, mind flashing back to the scene that had unfolded here two years ago. He was looking up at Sherlock from the street again, he was stammering into his phone, he was running around the corner, he was grasping Sherlock’s wrist – it was enough. The flashback pushed him over the edge.

“Get _down!_ ” John didn’t meant to yell, but everything was coming back to him now – _Look up, I’m on the roof_ – John ran to him, and Sherlock cautiously floated back onto the rooftop from the ledge in the way he did, the way he always did, the way he slid around corners and whisked through the night air, the way he glided down the stairs every morning – _Don’t come any closer_ – John collided against Sherlock, pulling him to the ground, trying, straining to get him away from the ledge, away from the sickening memories – _This is what people do, don’t they?_ – John pulled Sherlock closer to him, entangling him in an embrace as they crashed to the ground, not the way he’d always known friends to do, but – _Goodbye, John_ – and then John was kissing him, lips pressed against Sherlock’s in desperation, and Sherlock was breathing in with muffled surprise, Sherlock was responding just as frantically to the gesture. John pulled him closer, one hand buried deep in Sherlock’s hair and the other against the sharp curve of Sherlock’s face. He felt tears; he didn’t know whose, but he felt himself letting go of a sob he had been holding back since the day Sherlock had shown up with that stupid mustache in the restaurant and had ruined everything, everything again just the way he did. 

_Short version: not dead._

And then John felt Sherlock collapse, pulling away from the kiss and burying his head against John’s neck, shoulders shaking. John pulled him in, wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s torso and folding him into a firm embrace. 

They stayed like that for quite some time, the two of them. The two flat-mates, the two detectives, the friends, the couple, whatever they were. Whoever they were. John didn’t care anymore. It wasn’t a question – it wasn’t the question of him, nor was it the question of Sherlock. It was the two of them, united, indissoluble, and he didn’t care about anyone else in the world or anyone’s opinions or Mary or anything that he thought had been so important ten minutes ago. 

After a while, Sherlock raised his head from John’s shoulder, pulling himself up eye-level to John. _Those eyes, _John wondered to himself. All the golden flecks of mystery that swirled about in those piercing irises were focused on him, drawing him in, confessing that this was how they had always gazed upon him, since the day John had lent Sherlock his phone in a room somewhere beneath them at this very moment. John gazed back, amazed at the propensity of their depth, terrified of not being able to match their intensity. The two of them paused in their gaze, falling without moving, until Sherlock finally spoke, his voice shaking.__

“I had filed that away as an impossibility.”

John felt the corners of his mouth tug, his feeling of panic dwindling. “But having eliminating the impossible, did you get your improbable truth?”

Sherlock smiled softly back at him, mouthing a soft, “No.”

“So what went wrong?”

Sherlock closed the gap between them. 

_Human error, John._


	3. Chapter 3

_John. ___

Not Mycroft. He thought it was Mycroft. An innerving mistake to make, when it should have been so easy to recognize John’s short gait in comparison to his lanky brother’s. _But that was the last detail upon which I was focused in that moment. ___

It shouldn’t have gone the way it did. John shouldn’t have panicked so. And now, everything was going to change.

Sherlock was silent when they returned to the flat. The company had left; Mycroft off to threaten some unsuspecting government official; Mrs. Hudson to go, well, most likely muddle over Sherlock’s sanity and John’s sexuality; Mary… 

But none of it mattered now, and the silence in the cab on the way back to the flat was welcoming. There was so much to take in, to think about, to adjust to. Too much. Too much reality. Sherlock felt like a broken record: any attempts to enter into his mind palace, to whisk out his folder on John, organize his forbidden thoughts, his lonely desires, were pushed back by the memory of the softness of John’s lips, the smell of the crisp air that lingered on John’s shirt… Too much. Too much reality. And that folder… that folder was now accessible. It had been made public – to John and him, at least. It was no longer a private dossier of tortured hope, tedious longing, meticulous agony – no. It had taken form, it was no longer some wishful entity of his mind – it was embodied; it was John. 

The two men made their way back into the flat, the silence still lingering between them. Sherlock retired wearily into his room, collapsing on his bed, craving a moment of privacy with his swirling thoughts. 

_But what about Mary? ___

He couldn’t answer that right now. There were so many new cases to sort out, and until just moments ago on that god-forsaken roof top, the most unexpected one was that of Moriarty. While Sherlock knew he had sufficiently outsmarted Moriarty as an act of protecting John, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson, he was still anxious; demolishing Moriarty’s network seemed to be the most logical and thorough method to dealing with that anxiety, and yet, he still feared the worst: that Moriarty had, once again, come out on top. The most frustrating part, however, was the order of events. Everything that had happened with Magnussen was unorthodox in how eerily it slid into the cracks of all of their lives, exposing Mary’s true self to him and John, expanding until the cracks burst against the pressure into a moment of utter disregard for his own future, a moment of murder, a moment of saving John. And that was just it – saving John. From whom? A blackmailer? Or more truly, from Mary’s past? And why did that have to matter so much? John had killed people too, John had done things he wouldn’t ever want to tell anyone about. And yet, it was Mary’s past that was unspeakably heinous. Why?

That was what disturbed Sherlock more than anything. And in that moment, sprawled on his bed with John’s eyes flashing through his head, John’s touch… something didn’t make sense. 

John Watson didn’t make sense.

Sherlock closed his eyes. _Sherlock, you don’t make sense either. It’s not him, it’s you. He’s going to hate you now for practically forcing him to step into a grey area, push past what was acceptable, with him being married and whatnot…_

Sherlock drifted into sleep. John Watson was the only thing that made any sense in his life. 

He woke a good time later to a tentative knock at his bedroom door. 

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock slid off the bed to the door, opening it in full to John staring up at him. Sherlock made a move to close the door, but John caught it and pried it back open. 

“Was that it? What are you doing? I want to know what you’re sorting out, what you’re thinking. I don’t know if you think you’re confused or that being alone will help that or if you don’t know what I’ll say, but I would bet you I’m a bit more confused about everything than you –“

Sherlock brushed past him. Something had changed and it was time to work it out. Something was wrong. Unfortunately, John was either not aware of this shift, or he was just focusing on something else; either way, Sherlock had a heavy feeling that the link he felt was missing was dangerous to John, and if that were the case, Sherlock did not plan on stopping pursuit of the answer until John was safe. 

John’s footsteps, hesitant at first, came trailing after him eventually. 

“Sherlock, are you just ignoring me now, because if –“ 

“Not now, John.”

The footsteps paused. No answer. _Oops. ___

“You’re going to tell me ‘not now’?! After what just happened? Did you delete it, is it gone, is it unimportant? What in bloody hell is the matter with you!” Sherlock heard a door slam; he knew he ought to go retrieve him, apologize, but how could he explain to John, not now, need to think…

His thoughts rushed together in a blur, with John’s last exclamation on the forefront:

_I would bet you I’m a bit more confused about everything than you are. ___

John needed answers. Sherlock swore silently, reminding himself that John didn’t care what the problem was, John was a romantic, John wanted _answers _…__

Now it was Sherlock’s turn to knock on John’s door. There was a heavy pause, and finally, a muffle from John.

“Go away.”

Sherlock closed his eyes, regretting how he’d handled the situation a few minutes past. “I’m sorry, John, please let me in.”

Another pause, and then the sound of a bed creaking and finally, a pull at the door. Sherlock smiled at John, who glared back at him. Sherlock’s smile vanished, and he averted his eyes to the ground. 

“Well?” John sounded impatient.

Sherlock looked back up at John, John, who he’d dreamt about, John, his blogger, John, his doctor, John, his anchor… John, who was rightfully irritated at the moment. “I’m sorry, John. Sorry again. There’s so much going on right now, so many questions that desperately need answers, and the last question on my mind, the one to which I thought I never would receive an answer, was the only one of those questions today for which I did get a resolution.” His voice softened, and he looked pleadingly at John, whose façade of anger was wearing down.

“That’s just it, Sherlock, I need answers too. I need to know what that resolution was.” John moved closer to Sherlock, fixing him with a questioning gaze, his voice low. “I need to hear you say it.” 

Sherlock breathed in slightly, becoming aware of their close proximity. And suddenly, he was feeling nervous again, doubtful, scared that John would reject him. He was worried about John’s recalcitrant behavior, and was beginning to fear his brush with John outside of Sherlock’s bedroom door had recreated some form of rift between them. 

“Well?” John asked again, though softer this time, more patient. 

Sherlock was scared out of his wits. He hated this feeling. So stupid. People are stupid. He swallowed, mustering all of the courage in his body, and whispered, “I’m in love with you.”

John raised a hand to Sherlock’s hair and brushing the curls back with his fingers. He pulled towards Sherlock, and Sherlock did what felt more natural than anything he had ever done and pulled John Watson into his arms. They stood there, in a tight embrace, aware of the magnitude of their situation. Sherlock buried his face in John’s hair, planting soft kisses upon his head, hardly able to believe how lucky he felt.


	4. Chapter 4

John slept well that night. No soldiers, no guns, no sand. No image of Sherlock sprawled on the sidewalk, or collapsed on the floor of Magnussen’s flat. And when he woke up, he didn’t have to shake himself back into reality, pull himself back into some lie of normality. Instead, he woke to the sound of a violin. The memory of the previous day came rushing back to him. The notes trickling from the living room ceased as John made his way into the kitchen to make tea. 

Sherlock was at his computer, typing furiously. John suspected it had to do with whatever was distracting Sherlock so much the previous day, but he thought little of it. He felt badly about snapping at Sherlock, knowing now how critical it was in Sherlock’s mind that Sherlock work out every detail he could about Moriarty – and all to protect John. John glanced at Sherlock, who had neither looked up since John had entered the room nor acknowledged his presence. Sighing, John turned his focus to tea, and to his surprise found it had already been prepared. John glanced again at Sherlock; Sherlock remained silent, but a small smile had appeared on his face. John smiled too, sipping at the tea as he watched Sherlock beating away at the keyboard. Realizing Sherlock wasn’t about to cease any time soon, John returned to his bedroom to shower.

The rush of hot water cleared his head, and he mulled over what had occurred, what had changed, during the past twenty-four hours. He frowned – the rush of emotion he had experienced and upon which he had acted the previous day on the rooftop was a surprise to him. Wherever it came from, it was not a reaction John Watson was used to enduring, and he wondered in hindsight if he had acted rationally. He closed his eyes. _I’m married. I’m going to be a father. _But none of it felt real. It felt like what it did initially: an escape. An excuse. Mary pulled him from his misery, but she couldn’t fill the hole in his heart Sherlock had left there so suddenly. The fury of her lies billowed up in John, and he shook the water from his hair as he turned the shower off, leaning against the wall as he attempted to gather back together his thoughts. The discovery of Mary’s past was not a memory John wanted to recollect, and he had a new problem weighing on his mind now: Sherlock.__

Sherlock was scared, and John could tell; the way Sherlock trembled last night, his raw display of uncertainty and anxiety – Sherlock had obviously been holding back a whole myriad of emotions that John had somehow managed to overlook, and now John had to ask himself the same question that Sherlock had probably asked of himself, who knows how long ago: _did I really just fall in love with my flat-mate? _The answer was involuntarily; the answer was yes. But the answer was immediately there without giving John any chance to think it over. He had to stop, slow down. He had to be sure. The more he realized the lengths to which Sherlock had gone to make sure everything went perfectly for the wedding, everything about Mary’s past was resolved, everything was safe for John… the more John feared hurting Sherlock in return.__

~

John was taking an irritatingly long time in the shower. Sherlock had been working all morning, examining the last traces of Moriarty’s web, all that he had collected, pieced together. He scoured his computer, perusing the files in search of a bit of data he might have overlooked, a coded message, a date, a time. _A name._ But there was nothing. Exacerbated, Sherlock slammed his computer shut. He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. _Not the way to handle this day, _he reminded himself. He had made the mistake of focusing too intently on the matter at hand yesterday, and he wasn’t about to forget where that got him then.__

Sherlock opened his eyes; John had appeared again in the kitchen, this time with wet hair, bringing with him the humidity from the bathroom. Sherlock watched him washing out a tea cup, and felt all of his worries diminish, his edges soften. John really didn’t know how lovely he looked standing there in their kitchen, in their flat once more, as if nothing had changed between them, as if everything had gone back to the way it was the day before Sherlock jumped. Sherlock’s stomach turned at the thought, and he looked away. That rooftop meant something else to him now, something more significant, and he was determined to force this new memory to override its predecessor. 

“Case giving you trouble?”

Sherlock started at the sound of John’s voice, and it took him a moment to respond. “Oh… no, everything’s fine.”

John glanced sideways at him, just enough for Sherlock to be aware that John knew otherwise.

Sherlock decided it would be best to keep the focus on the case, whatever it was, and said, “I think we should go see Lestrade. I have some questions for him about security breaches.”

John raised his eyebrows. “Instead of Mycroft?”

_Yes, John, I need a distraction, not a nuisance. _“No… it just has something to do with…”__

“Sherlock.” John’s voice stopped Sherlock in his tracks, and Sherlock looked up at him. John made his way into the living room, lowering himself into his chair. They sat, facing each other. John said quietly, “Thank you for putting my chair back.”

Sherlock looked down. “No matter.”

“You thought I was going to move back in with you after what Mary did to you.”

Sherlock said nothing. 

“And yet you did everything you could to convince me that it still was okay to be with her. Why would you do that? I would have come back here in an instant, given the circumstances that you had just told me it was her who shot you instead of having to play it out like – “

“It would have been wrong, John.” Sherlock sounded exhausted. “It would have been unfair to you. It would have been selfish of me. You already have one person in your life who wants everything to go her way. You don’t need two.” Sherlock fell silent.

“When did you know?” John caught Sherlock’s gaze and held it. 

“When did I what?”

“When did you know you were in love with me.” It came out more in the form of a statement rather than a question.

A small smile, a sad tug at the corner of Sherlock’s mouth flickered for a moment. He didn’t ever think this would be a story he would relay, and least of all, to John Watson himself. But when he opened his mouth, the story came easily. Really, it poured out, dammed up for so long in the recesses of Sherlock’s mind, soaking into his being like a poison, longing to breathe before it would fully smother him. 

There was so much to tell. The impact of John’s admiration for Sherlock's deductions in the first cab ride, the realization that John had shot the cabbie; it all came forth, and John sat in his chair, mesmerized. Sherlock continued through his list: the glances back and forth at each other in the restaurants, on the streets, in the flat, the nudges and hints from Mrs. Hudson that infuriated Sherlock for so long, until he finally realized she was right. And it did made him furious. Love seemed so stupid, so gratuitous, so pointless. Why waste precious time fretting over another human? Everyone’s so stupid. And the idea of friendship, that was fine – he felt that he had a purpose jumping off that building, focusing his time on picking apart the threats to the people he valued in his life – but that was John, _and_ it was Mrs. Hudson, _and _it was Lestrade. It was for all of them. Wasn’t it? No – Sherlock’s voice caught in his throat as he reached the point in his confession to John about when he first discovered John was getting married. That discovery flipped Sherlock’s world upside down. Everything felt like abandonment, everything else was stupid, everything else was gratuitous, everything else was pointless. And the one person who wasn’t any of those nuisances was occupied with someone else. Sherlock had done everything he could to repel the feeling that he was losing the man he loved, but the concept of love itself had remained so foreign to Sherlock for so long that when he finally realized he acted out of love, not simple friendship, he was entirely consumed by it, helpless in its presence, completely obedient to his longing. He tried to articulate those feelings to John, and he could feel tears brimming in his eyes, unable to be stopped after such a long time of being retained.__

_No matter what I say, he’s not going to be able to understand._

Sherlock felt a hand on his knee. John leaned forward, and brushed away at the wetness on Sherlock’s face, lingering over Sherlock’s pale skin. Sherlock leaned forward as well, nudging his forehead against John’s, closing his eyes just for a minute’s rest, a moment of silence, a chance to take in the feeling of John’s weight against him. Neither spoke for a moment, and Sherlock breathed. John shifted forward, placing both of his hands against Sherlock’s neck, breathing with Sherlock. 

“It’s all okay, Sherlock. It’s all fine.”


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock and John spent the evening in the flat. Sherlock’s confession from earlier that day had come as a bit of a shock to John. He’d known Sherlock would have a lot to say, to explain, but the amount of heartfelt emotion that Sherlock had let loose came as a surprise. It was so unlike him, Sherlock, who spent all of his time testily finding something annoying about everything, creating experiments to belie boredom, ignoring obvious social cues… John could tell he was being exposed to a side of Sherlock that didn’t exist solely because of his love for John, but instead encompassed an entire range of Sherlock’s vulnerabilities and fears. And yet, after all the times John had lost his temper, stormed out of the flat, gotten fed up with an experiment or a dead-end case, he had never felt uncomfortable displaying his vulnerabilities to Sherlock. And there was Sherlock, making up for all of the lost times he could have confided in John in the last several years, all in one elongated conversation. 

John sighed, returning his focus to the telly. There really wasn’t anything on, which wasn’t surprising, but Sherlock was back at his computer, and John didn’t want to leave the room as long as Sherlock was occupying it. His sense of attachment was growing, or at least, it was returning from the shambles to which it been reduced at the sight of Sherlock’s lifeless form on the pavement two long years ago. He began to understand why Sherlock felt the need to be so protective, and it saddened him to think it was to make up for whatever problems Sherlock had felt like he caused, mistakes for which he thought he needed to make amends. _But you didn’t need to do that,_ John thought, gazing at Sherlock from his chair. _You did everything you could to make sure I was happy. I owe you so much. ___

John shook his head, realizing he had no idea what was happening on the show he was watching. He stood up and walked over to Sherlock, placing a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock relaxed at the touch; John didn’t realize how tense Sherlock had been, sitting at his computer. A word document was open on the screen, containing a chart with an amalgamation of what was to John a series of incoherent numbers. John kissed him on the forehead, lingering at the touch of Sherlock’s curls against his lips, and Sherlock leaned up against John, breathing out slowly.

John looked down at him, smiling gently. “Don’t strain yourself with whatever it is you’re doing. I’m here if you need me.” John paused. “I’ll see you in the morning. Get some sleep.”

Sherlock smiled wearily back at him, engulfing John in his gaze. It was all John could do to retain his composure, slipping away to his bedroom with a ‘good night’ as he departed from the dimly lit living room. _It’s not just a desire to protect him, _John wondered to himself. It was the desire of reciprocity as well.__

John slipped into his bed, unmade from the night before, and pressed his head into a pillow. He had wanted to ask Sherlock to join him, but feared Sherlock would disregard him in favor of his computer and his work – and whatever irrational anxiety he was holding back about his feelings for John. Stupid, really. John sighed, slightly irritated with himself, and tossed the other direction, unable to settle into the bed in which he had not slept for so long. It felt strange, being here in 221B, given the new circumstances. Last night he was exhausted, too in need of sleep to think about his predicament, but he was contemplating it now. He was used to sharing a bed with Mary, even though most nights recently had lacked intimacy. And now, he was back at Baker Street, wishing Sherlock were in bed with him. It was surreal.

It took John almost an hour to fall asleep, and just as he was on the verge of slipping out of consciousness, there was a quiet knock at his door. He shifted slightly, hoping it would go away and let him sleep, but instead, the door creaked open. He opened one eye, and the silhouette of Sherlock filled the doorway.

“Sorry… can I sit?” Sherlock sounded nervous.

John nodded, shifting slightly, and patted the side of the bed. Sherlock balanced himself lightly on the edge of the bed, watching John with caution, and John realized that Sherlock wanted to stay. 

“Here,” John said sleepily, and patted the sheets next to him.

Sherlock reacted immediately, moving lightly over John’s form to John’s side in the middle of the bed. He lay down, their bodies pressed against one another, and moved himself against John, shivering under the covers at the touch. John, on his side now with Sherlock pressed against his back, turned his head slightly to put Sherlock in view. 

“Are you alright?” John hadn’t expected this, even if he had been hoping for it.

“Of course I am.” Sherlock spoke contentedly, resting his chin on the curve of John’s back. He wrapped his arms around John, pulling him close, feeling the turn of his body and snuggling into it. “I just… I’ve wanted this for much too long to put it off any more than one night.” Sherlock smiled into John’s neck, and John felt a pang of guilt. He wished he had known sooner what this meant to Sherlock, and he wanted to prove to Sherlock it meant the same to him, as well. 

~

Everything was engulfed in flames. _John. _Sherlock tore at the loose branches, screaming John’s name, but when he pulled him out of the burning tower of bramble, he found in horror that it was Moriarty, not John, who lay in front of him.__

Moriarty grinned widely. “Sorry to disappoint you, Sherlock. Guess again! Oh, wait. Too late!”

Sherlock twisted back to the bonfire, just as it crackled and collapsed into a heap of burning wood. _John._ He couldn’t move, he clawed at the branches, he heard Mary’s laughter, _Mary, _and then something was pulling him away, a firm grasp, strong hands warm against his skin, and someone with a lovely voice was murmuring to him.__

“You’re okay, Sherlock. You’re okay. I’m here. Shhh, lay back down, lack back down.” Sherlock turned towards the sound of the voice, moving to make himself closer to it, to feel the rush of it against his skin, against his lips. He breathed, realizing where he was, and burrowed his head into the crook of John’s arm, shuddering. John wrapped his free arm over Sherlock’s side, gathering him close, rocking him slowly. Sherlock felt John’s face in his hair, kissing him and nuzzling against him, whispering softly to _shh._ Sherlock borrowed deeper. _Can’t get close enough to you._ His thoughts were incoherent in the middle of night; he shifted, taking in his surroundings. The moonlight pooled lazily across the comforter of John’s bed, dripping into the folds of the sheets that ensconced the two of them. He shifted onto his back, turning his head towards John, who was looking at him with a hint of sleepy concern. 

“Bad dream?” John’s voice was deep, husky with sleep.

Sherlock shivered at the sound of John’s voice in the darkness. “It’s okay now,” he whispered. John smiled at him, tenderly pulling Sherlock close to him, pressing their lips together, holding him there for a long moment, and Sherlock melted against him, against John’s soft touch. 

Their lips parted slightly; Sherlock breathed into John, and murmured, “thank you.” Closing his eyes, John brushed his nose against Sherlock’s pale cheek. 

“I love you, Sherlock.” He murmured into the darkness. 

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at John, who, eyes still closed, relaxed down against Sherlock’s neck and sighed. Sherlock smiled to himself, nestling back down into the pillow and pressing his face into John’s hair. _I love you too. ___


	6. Chapter 6

_But what about Mary? ___

John was not entirely sure what to think. He had been at Baker Street for two days now, and had just awoken into the morning of the third, but he had no desire to go back to his and Mary’s flat. The sheets next to him shifted, and he turned towards the lump in his bed that was Sherlock. Sherlock nestled into his pillow and John moved to him, cuddling him close, feeling the curl of their bodies together. He was beginning to realize that the flat he shared with Mary was a lifetime ago, a different era. He wasn’t sure how he would approach her, if he even could. _What could I say,_ he mused to himself. _‘Sorry Mary, the best man fell in love with me, apparently everyone else knew it was going to happen all along, I’m just slow on the uptake.’ _He smiled to himself, incredulous at the position he was in. In love with Sherlock Holmes? That wasn’t even a thought that would have crossed his mind a year ago. He knew Sherlock was his best friend, and he knew Sherlock was the reason John had been able to turn around and pick up the pieces of what he thought was his permanently shattered life. But things had been different when Sherlock returned. He hadn’t understood before, but he did now. Sherlock, a distraction. Sherlock, a flat-mate. Sherlock, a best friend, a best man. And now…__

John sat up in the bed, blinking at the rays of morning light shining through the window. He glanced down at Sherlock, sleeping soundly, and smiled. Sherlock was beautiful, John realized. He’d always been, though, no matter how John interpreted it. _I wish I had figured it out sooner. _He leaned down, gently pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s parted lips, and went to go take a shower.__

When John got out of the shower, Sherlock was gone; John assumed that once again, Sherlock was attempting to extrapolate all of the details concerning Moriarty’s return. John, on the other hand, had a more looming task at hand for the day: confronting Mary. He finished getting ready, and made his way out to his car, trying to work out how he was going to explain his bizarre circumstances to Mary once he got to their flat.

~

Sherlock knew.

When he woke up, John was gone, and the nightmare came back to him, revealing to him the answer he had been searching for. He knew why Magnussen targeted Mary precisely when he did. It made sense, too much sense, but Sherlock was furious with himself for not grasping it sooner. The moment he realized his hunch, he knew he was right. His nightmare jolted him; it replayed in his mind, and planted a suspicion in his head. His extensive searches through the ruins of what once was Moriarty’s network was not going to give him the missing link, the answer to whether or not John was still being watched, because the answer was too personal, too close to him, to be amongst all of that data. 

The answer was Mary. 

Sherlock tapped his foot impatiently, turning his phone over in his coat pocket and silently wishing the cab driver would develop a sense of urgency. When the cab finally arrived in front of John and Mary’s flat, Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief that John’s car was not outside. John had just gotten in the shower when Sherlock left, but the last couple days had held enough surprises that Sherlock was wary even of the illogical. He knew John would be planning to confront Mary, and he smiled wanly to himself as he appreciated what impeccable timing with which John had realized Sherlock’s love for him – whoever Sherlock was about to find in this flat, at least John wasn’t going to be there. He was safe in 221B.

Sherlock rapped on the door, and a sing-song voice called him to come in. Sherlock recognized the voice, his stomach twisting into a knot. His hunch was correct.

He opened the door to Moriarty perched on the edge of the couch in the living room, and raised his eyebrows. The two men locked eyes, silent for a moment. 

Sherlock cut through the silence. “Did you miss me?” he said wryly.

Moriarty’s mouth curled into a tight grin. “My line, darling. Not such good manners to start out our reunion with stealing, is it?”

Sherlock said nothing, and Moriarty continued. “Well, it looks like I beat you to that, anyway.” Moriarty shifted his gaze to the kitchen, and Sherlock followed suit. In the kitchen, Mary was sitting on a chair, perched up in the same way Moriarty was on the couch, legs curled beneath her in the manner that forced her to sit on her feet, which were tied together along with her hands. She eyed Sherlock, a blank look on her face.

Moriarty’s grin widened. “Do you think John will like it? I thought he’d find it a bit sexy.” Sherlock frowned, and turned his gaze away from Mary. “John doesn’t care,” he said.

“Oh really?” Moriarty looked up at Sherlock. “And what makes you think that?”

“Because I know who she really is.”

Moriarty fluttered his eyelashes, pretending to look startled. “And who then, Sherlock, is she?”

“She wasn’t anything you put on that flash drive she gave us,” Sherlock said quietly.

Moriarty’s smile vanished. His voice lowered. “So what does that make her?”

Sherlock turned to face Mary, who was pale. “A liar.”

Moriarty rolled his eyes. “Oh wow, the famous detective Sherlock Holmes and his detailed deductions.” His eyes narrowed. “Are you being boring again, Sherlock? Because I had so much hope for you when you ‘survived’ your fall. What an angel, I thought; and there you went, killing off all of my best assassins! He’s not being boring, he’s being exciting. He does miss me…” Moriarty trailed off.

Sherlock made his way into the middle of the living room. “I killed off all of your assassins, save one.” Moriarty watched him move across the carpet. “And you just tied her up in her own kitchen because you thought if she’s important to John Watson, she’s important to me.” Sherlock smiled. “But you aren’t Charles Augustus Magnussen, are you – you don’t play with pressure points. You play with chaos.”

Moriarty was glaring now. Sherlock continued. “Did you expect to find John here? Did you watch us, the three of us? At the wedding? Did you watch me spiraling, an addict? Did you think I had fallen for Mary’s tricks?”

Moriarty was silent.

“Because I did,” Sherlock whispered. “I did fall for her tricks. Magnussen didn’t believe my pressure point was a petty drug addiction, but I knew that I was killing two birds with one stone. I thought that for one, I was misleading Magnussen, but despite the fact that proved not to be true, the other reason remained so: I was helping myself to forget about John. Ultimately the return to drugs was a failed trick for Magnussen, but isn’t it interesting, Moriarty, because you were the one who fell for – “

The turn of the front door handle cut Sherlock off.


	7. Chapter 7

John froze.

The room lilted sideways, and he steadied himself against the wall. _What in the hell._

“You’re… you’re in my…” John stammered, mind refusing to comprehend the situation.

“You’re you’re you’re,” Moriarty mimicked, hopping off of the couch and prancing over to stand by Mary. “I’m in your flat? That’s pretty obvious, isn’t it, Johnny, SPIT IT OUT.” 

Sherlock tensed as Moriarty’s voice raised into a shout. John turned towards Sherlock, and to John’s surprise, he saw a glimmer of confidence in Sherlock’s eyes. The room steadied; Sherlock _had _figured something out, something that would give them the upper hand after all, but what? John had no idea.__

Moriarty went back to rambling, singing out his thoughts to Sherlock. “That definitely was one thing I never understood about you, why you liked to keep such a desperately dreary person as your puppy. Was it to make you look better, Sherlock? But no, that’s not very exciting, is – “

Sherlock cut him off. “You’ve kept the same company. She’s tied up in a chair right now, if you wanted a specific example.”

John started at Sherlock’s retort; then he realized. He turned slowly towards Mary, gingerly glancing back at Sherlock, who had a look in his eyes that said _don’t give anything away. _Sherlock mouthed something John didn’t catch, but John knew what needed to happen. He felt as if the world were crumbling to bits around him – no. He had to trust Sherlock.__

“He put you here.” John’s voice cracked. “He planted you with me.” Moriarty grinned at the two of them in delight, and John spat out his next exclamation. “I TRUSTED you. You told me you’d changed! The past wasn’t supposed to matter anymore!” John let himself raise his voice to a level of fury, both as an act and in genuine anger at what Sherlock had implied, wishing it were not true but not being able to ignore that it was. _Mary allied with Moriarty. _John felt sick.__

Mary flinched as John yelled at her, but did not respond. Instead, she turned to Moriarty. “Untie me, Jim.” John turned, incredulous, giving Moriarty a look of horror. 

Sherlock watched from the corner of the living room, a smile playing on his lips. John glanced at him for help, but received none. _He’ll stop me if I get off course._ But John knew where this was going. He knew what both Moriarty and Mary did not, what he had come here to confess to Mary. Sherlock was playing his cards right, _so devastatingly clever,_ thought John, his adoration for Sherlock rising. _NOT the time for this, _he told himself. Shaking his head, he turned back to Mary with a pleading gaze.__

“I love you. You know that. We can fix this, make it right, you and I. You don’t need _him._ ” John jerked his head in Moriarty’s direction as he played Mary. He felt a momentary twinge of guilt, a flash of who he had wanted Mary to be, the woman who had drawn him out of his misery, the woman who was carrying his child… John shook his head. _She played me first._

Moriarty danced to Mary’s side, and with a swift motion undid her bonds. She shook off the rope, and it coiled to the ground with a dull thud. Moriarty leaned in next to her, putting his arm around her waist, and whispered loudly to her, repeating John’s words, emphasizing _“him” _in the same manner that John had, shooting an accusatory glare John’s direction that revealed a fiery glee dancing in his eyes. Mary smiled, placing herself in front of Moriarty and shifting her gaze back to John.__

John turned to Sherlock with a look of infuriation. _Might as well drag you out of your silent vigil. _“This is all your fault.”__

Sherlock looked up at him, and John hesitated; the look Sherlock was giving him was hugely intense. John felt uneasy, disliking the fact that he didn’t know what Sherlock was doing. He continued, deciding that’s what Sherlock would want him to do. “If you had just stayed dead, I could have been happy.”

John’s words sliced through the air. A burst of tension flashed between the four people in the room, and Sherlock’s eyes widened in shock. He lunged at John; John darted out of Sherlock’s reach, landing face to face with Mary, who now stood between him and Moriarty. _What in the hell was Sherlock doing? ___

There was a crash, and a peppering of noise that brought John back to Afghanistan. Moriarty stumbled towards Mary; there was a slow silence, and then another pop, and John was just able to make out Mary staggering forward before he collapsed to the ground himself, a pinprick of agony blossoming in his chest.

~

Sherlock’s phone hummed gently against his hand, tucked away in the pocket of his coat. He didn't make a move to take it out of his pocket and check the message; he already knew what it said. _Arrived. _He made no motion to reveal himself to the others in the room, but exhaled quietly, releasing a bit of the tension he had allowed to build as he had waited impatiently for the first text.__

John was pleading with Mary. He had thrown Sherlock a glance that said something along the lines of, _‘I have no idea what the fuck is going on but you better have a plan,’ _and Sherlock did his best to look encouraging. John had obviously caught on to Mary’s treachery, but Sherlock hoped immensely that John had also caught on to the fact that he needed to be buying them time.__

_“Stall,” _Sherlock mouthed silently, but John threw him another furious glance that Sherlock interpreted with a pang of anxiety as cluelessness. And yet nevertheless, John kept up his game.__

“He put you here. He planted you with me.”

 _Maybe his plan is to stall too, until he figures out what mine is,_ Sherlock thought with amusement. His phone buzzed again. This time, Sherlock openly smiled. _No threats detected in surrounding area._ This was the text he had feared would never come, that the back-up Moriarty always appeared to have ready was indeed surrounding John and Mary’s flat and the set-up was destroyed. He wondered to himself if he really had succeeded in sufficiently dwindling Moriarty’s supply of assassins, amazed at the risk he had just taken. John glanced at him again, and Sherlock stood still, motioning him onwards with a glance. At least, he hoped that’s what it looked like he was doing.

John was doing well, too. “I love you. You know that. We can fix this, make it right, you and I. You don’t need _him._ ” Sherlock watched as John motioned towards Moriarty, and Moriarty just repeated John’s exact words to Mary, the annoying little prick. _This is getting ridiculous, _Sherlock thought. Where was the last text?__

As if on cue, Sherlock’s phone vibrated. He tensed. Target acquired. He had ten seconds.

Mary was listening to John, Moriarty’s arm snaked around her torso. _Seven seconds._ John had turned towards Sherlock, declared that everything was Sherlock’s fault. _Four seconds._ John was shouting something about being happy, but Sherlock didn’t hear what he said. _One second._ He dived at John, but instead of pulling John to the floor, Sherlock crashed to the ground empty handed, looking up in wild confusion. John had darted in front of Mary to avoid Sherlock, a look of surprise in his eyes. 

_No._

A report of gunfire shattered the living room window, ripping through Moriarty. Sherlock tried to pull himself up, but he felt weighed down, unable to move quickly enough. A second report this time tore through Mary, and as Sherlock watched in horror, John fell to the ground with her.


	8. Chapter 8

Everything was black. John heard screaming. He tried to reach out towards the noise, but his body was numb, unresponsive. Somewhere in the clutter of whatever was going on around him, he thought he heard Mycroft’s voice. _That’s odd. He wasn’t here earlier. _John’s blurred thoughts dwindled in and out as he slipped farther into the welcoming darkness.__

Then Sherlock’s voice cut through the buzz of noise, saying John’s name, pleading with him. _It’s okay, Sherlock,_ John tried to say. He was growing exasperated – nothing was working. _It’s okay, Sherlock, I have to tell you that it is, but I’ll just tell you later since I can’t right now, but it’s okay, it really is, it’s all fine._

The noise cut out, and John lost consciousness. 

~

The worst that could have gone wrong, did. John had followed Sherlock’s lead the entire time they were in the flat, but had the nerve to pick the absolute worst moment to go his own way. 

Mary had fallen on top of John. Sherlock pushed her aside, grabbing at John’s wrist to check for a pulse, panic exploding throughout his entire being. John’s heart was still beating, but his shirt oozed blood from the bullet hole. 

Mycroft rushed into the room. Sherlock shouted at him to call an ambulance, not waiting for a response. He ripped at John’s shirt, exposing the wound. Sherlock threw off his coat and removed his own shirt, wrapping it tightly around John’s upper torso, and gathered John’s limp form up into his arms, cradling him. 

“John, John, I know you can hear me, _please _hold on for me, I love you, please…” Sherlock rocked back and forth, pressing John against him as he pleaded with him. Sherlock felt terror coursing through his body, and his head was becoming clouded with surreal grief. He couldn’t process what had happened, he couldn’t bear to acknowledge that the risk he had taken involving Mycroft may have just sent John to his death. His world was flickering in and out, a soundless explosion of torment as his heart broke, John’s face ashen and unmoving before him.__

“I love you, John, you have to pull through this, because I can’t live without you. Please. I’m never going to leave you, ever. I’m going to protect you. I’m going to make you so happy." _I’m sorry that I couldn’t get to you. _Sherlock was rambling, not bothering if anyone could hear him. He didn’t care. Nothing mattered anymore, nothing was ever going to matter again unless John Watson opened his eyes and pulled himself through.__

Someone gripped Sherlock’s shoulder, and John was pried from him, John was on a stretcher, there were sirens…

Mycroft’s smooth voice was next to Sherlock’s ear, whispering to him, comforting him. It was soothing. Sherlock turned, looking up at his brother helplessly. Mycroft’s eyes took Sherlock in, a look of grief passing over his face. Everything else around Mycroft was a blur, and the room swayed; Sherlock forced himself to focus, to draw himself to his brother. He needed him desperately. At that moment, Mycroft was everything. Sherlock had nothing else. 

Mycroft smiled gently. “We can follow the ambulance to the hospital.” Sherlock reached for Mycroft’s hand, squeezing it, pressing his face against it. Comforting. “There, there,” Mycroft said softly. “It’s going to be okay.” Sherlock closed his eyes, focusing on his brother’s voice, trying to convince himself to calm down. Mycroft was still speaking, his voice a murmur. “I can call a helicopter if you feel like that would be quicker.” Sherlock nodded feebly, overwhelmingly grateful for his brother’s consistent ability to maintain his composure. 

“Mary?” Sherlock’s voice was broken. “Moriarty?”

“The operation was a success. You have nothing to worry about.”

_I have everything to worry about. _Tears welled in Sherlock’s eyes, and he pulled himself up into Mycroft’s arms. Mycroft relaxed against his little brother, pulling him in, cradling him as he had done when Sherlock was a child, lost and scared in his loneliness. He spoke quietly to Sherlock, murmuring reassurances to him, and Sherlock stayed still, clutching at the comfort that was evading him with every thought of John that entered into his mind.__


	9. Chapter 9

John awoke to dim, whitewashed light in a tiny room. He glanced around, recognizing the gray sterilized smell of a hospital. He struggled to sit up in confusion, but a dull throbbing pulsated in the upper right half of his chest. He’d felt that pain before, a long time ago under the desert sun. 

_I’ve been shot._

Bewildered, he tried to recall what happened. Moriarty and Mary, tumbling to the ground, and Sherlock – _Sherlock. _Sherlock leaping at him. Sherlock screaming his name, Sherlock imploring him to hold on… and Sherlock, right there in the little room, pitched forward in a chair with his head pressed into the thin sheets against John’s right leg, asleep with a look of fatigue splayed across his face.__

John sighed, settling back into the hard pillow that was propping him up, a wave of tiredness rushing over him. He closed his eyes. Sherlock was there, was safe. John would figure out what happened some other time. 

A quiet knock at the door interrupted John’s slumber, and he turned to see Mycroft sliding into the room. 

“Ah, good, you’ve finally awoken.” Mycroft addressed John, but eyed Sherlock, asleep against John’s thigh. “You’ve been out for quite some time. I’ve been checking in; I wasn’t sure if you wanted to know what transpired from him or from someone a bit less… jarred.”

John looked up at Mycroft, puzzled. “Tell me what happened.”

Mycroft sighed deeply, settling himself into a chair on the opposite side of the bed from Sherlock. 

“Your wife… she isn’t who you thought she was.”

“I know that,” John said impatiently. _Don’t make me think about that right now._

Mycroft spoke slowly, choosing his words carefully. “It was more than just a dangerous background that Magnussen used to threaten her with. It was all a ruse, John. She was sent to watch you. Moriarty… She and Moriarty had planned everything. And the trigger was Sherlock’s return. They weren’t sure if it was going to happen, but obviously, it did. Sherlock is going to be furious at himself for quite a while, I think, knowing that he could have stopped Moriarty and Mary in their tracks so much sooner.”

John listened, realizing sadly how misled he had been for years. He shook his head. “Okay… but tell me how that led up to what happened in the flat.”

“Sherlock contacted me this morning,” Mycroft began. _Was it really just this morning? _John thought to himself. He glanced at the window, noticing it was open, and gazed at the sun, low on the horizon. A breeze wafted through the room. Mycroft was still talking. “He was frantic, almost in hysterics with both worry and excitement. And he was right. He knew everything. It clicked for him, I don’t know how, or why. And he had a plan. Simple really, a recycled plan, actually – one we had sorted out to be used as an option for his feigned suicide, in fact.” Mycroft paused, tentatively eying John. “But strangely risky for Sherlock. It involved what he had never been willing to accept before: outside help in taking Moriarty down. It was simple; I would send him three texts: the first, to let him know my snipers had arrived. The second, to let him know that we had cleared the area and found none of Moriarty’s marksmen. That was the part of the plan we thought the riskiest – if there were assassins discovered in the area waiting in hiding to come to Moriarty’s assistance, I was simply not to text Sherlock at all, and he would have to work his own way out of the predicament. Most fortunately, I was able to send that text. And the third text was to let Sherlock know the targets were in sight, and that he had ten seconds until we took out Moriarty and Mary.”__

_And Mary._

John turned over the information in his mind. “So… what went wrong? How did I get shot?”

“You evaded Sherlock when he dove for you. He was trying to pin you to the ground so that you and he would be out of the line of fire. Obviously, that didn’t go as planned. Moriarty was shot, but Mary was between you and the shot that killed her, which… made its way to you as well.” 

John was silent. Sherlock had just been buying time, he realized. He glanced at Sherlock, his rhythmic breathing waning in and out slowly in his sleep. John winced at the realization of how long it was going to take for Sherlock to believe John would forgive him for all of this, and how long it would take for Sherlock to forgive himself.

“He’ll be alright, John,” Mycroft said softly.

John looked up at Mycroft. “One more question,” he said. “Back at Baker Street. You knew where Sherlock was going when he stormed out the door. How did you know Sherlock would be on the roof?”

Mycroft looked down at Sherlock, his gaze soft and sad. “That is between my brother and me.” He looked back up at John, hesitating for a moment. “I take it the two of you have worked out… your…”

“He’s done everything he could to protect me,” John’s voice was firm. “And I didn't see it, I didn't see why. I do now, though. And I owe him my life.” John caught Mycroft’s gaze, and held it. “I know he’s in love with me. And I will do everything I can to make sure he knows that I love him back.”

Mycroft cocked an eyebrow at John. John grinned, running his hand through Sherlock’s hair. “Thank you, Mycroft. I know you worry about him.”

“Of course I do,” Mycroft said quietly. “I love him.”

John smiled.

~

Sherlock woke with a crick in his neck from the terrible position in which he had fallen asleep. Stretching, he looked up to see John watching him, head against the pillow with a feeble smile on his face. Sherlock’s heart jumped in his throat, and he swallowed. 

“John.”

Hearing his name, John reached his hand out, and Sherlock took it, held it tightly, feeling the warmth of John’s skin and his strong pulse. John was okay. Sherlock leaned forward, gingerly wrapping his arms around John’s neck, avoiding the wound to John’s chest. He pulled John close, burying his face in John’s hair, breathing out heavily. He felt awful. 

“I don’t even know where to start,” Sherlock mumbled, and felt John’s hands against his face, pushing him into view. 

“You don’t have to,” John said gently. “Mycroft explained what happened. You just missed him, he left a few minutes ago.”

“He told you everything?” Sherlock was cautious. There was one thing he wasn’t sure John had even considered.

“Yes,” John confirmed. “Yeah, he explained it. The texts, the plan, I guess everything worked out.” John looked away.

Sherlock started to speak, but John cut him off. “There was one thing, though… they…” John faltered. “They didn’t happen to be able to save the baby, did they?” He looked up at Sherlock. Sherlock’s heart broke thinking about what he was about to say.

“John… you weren’t her father.”

John stared at him, eyes widening. Sherlock looked down at John’s hand, entwined again in his. _John deserves so much more than this._

“Sherlock.” 

Sherlock looked back up. John’s eyes were closed. “I need a moment of privacy. Please.” Sherlock obliged, miserably making his way out of the hospital room into the hall. He sat down on the bench outside of the room, and cradled his head in his hands. _All my fault._

He had taken John’s pulse, after John had been shot. He had grabbed for him, held him, and then John had been taken away. _Please, he’s my friend._ John had done the same when Sherlock leapt from the roof. Sherlock felt a rush of hatred towards himself, uncomprehending of how he could have possibly allowed John to believe he had killed himself for the entirety of two years. He didn’t feel human. Everything he had just experienced at John and Mary’s flat, the terror, the sickening feeling of helplessness – he deserved it. He deserved all of it. He realized finally what he had put John through. And John, as a result, had lost his wife and the child who never belonged to him, not only because Sherlock had returned, but because Sherlock had chosen to deceive him in the first place. _Everything is my fault. ___


	10. Chapter 10

_You weren’t her father._

Sherlock’s words resonated through John’s head. He was wearing thin; he couldn’t take anymore surprises, any more betrayal. John fell back into his pillow, squeezing his eyes shut. That was the last bit of innocence in his life. He had been looking forward to it, to the baby girl, to getting a second chance at being important to someone, a chance at something so pure in his polluted life. And now, that was gone as well, swept up in the lies with which he had been poisoned for what felt like an entire lifetime. His eyes stung, and he felt the regret, the loss, surging inside of him. 

Too much had happened in the last few days. He had gained Sherlock, for one. But everything he had established, to deny his pain, alleviate his suffering from the loss of Sherlock, unaware of the potential of the bond they shared – that was coming crumbling down. He didn’t know how to handle it. He thought he was going to have to hurt Mary, to explain to her what he hadn’t realized before – that he loved Sherlock, belonged with him. But instead, the incident at the flat had turned into a whirlwind of revelations that hacked away at whatever lingering affection John had for Mary, and had ended with her death. _She never had to know,_ John realized. If she truly had loved him, at least he was able to give her that. _She never had to know I fell in love with someone else. _He turned his head, feeling tears trailing down his cheeks. And if she hadn’t truly loved him, not in any moment, not at all…__

John brushed away the tears angrily. The slaughter was over, three causalities as a result. Moriarty, who John hated now more than ever; Moriarty, who had planted Mary in his life, not caring if it hurt John, only caring if it hurt Sherlock. John really was a puppet; a means to an end. And Mary, who aided that lie, who created it, really. And then, the baby… _Moriarty’s bloodline, _John realized. He shuddered, all of a sudden missing Sherlock. He closed his eyes, hoping Sherlock would come back soon.__

~

John had fallen asleep by the time Sherlock knocked tentatively at the door. Slipping into the room and back to the chair by John’s bed, Sherlock studied John’s sleeping form, watching him, trying to discern if he was alright. He ran a careful hand over John’s chest, eyeing the bandaged wound. _I’m looking at a soldier. _Sherlock shuddered at the thought of John in the context of war, the constant gunfire, the pain, John who he loved, who was invaluable to him… Sherlock shook the image away. He trailed his hand up to John’s face and rested it there, tenderly stroking John’s rough cheek with his thumb.__

John opened his eyes. Sherlock noticed how red they were; he felt grief surge up in his stomach, enough to make him feel ill. He bowed his head in regret, but John reached up to him, cupping Sherlock’s chin in his hand, and lifted Sherlock’s face back up. 

“I love you,” John whispered, eyes immersing Sherlock entirely in their depth.

Sherlock’s heart melted. All his years of longing concentrated in just seconds into complete adoration, into yearning to be close to John, to feel his touch, his breath, his whispering presence. Sherlock bent swiftly to John, catching him in a forceful kiss, desiring to be closer to him, molded into his embrace. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock, pulling him down, kissing him back with the same clutching intensity. Sherlock ran his hands through John's hair, tasting John's lips, holding him as close as he could, and John melded against him, his strong arms tight, comforting around Sherlock's body. Sherlock wondered at John’s touch, amazed. He rested his forehead against John’s, breathing him in as the kiss softened to a brush of their lips. Sherlock felt speechless. All of the warmth in his world, everything he loved, everything he cared about, that was precious to him, that was good, was embodied in front of him in the form of the most important person he had ever had the good fortune of knowing. He was breathless with how much he needed John. He opened his eyes, staring into John’s, feeling lost in John’s gaze, and John stared back, eyes twinkling. He felt the weight of infatuation drawing him into a moment of deep astonishment. He was so _lucky. ___

“I adore you.” Sherlock’s voice was broken, shaking with how overcome he was with affection for the man in his arms. “I have loved you for so long, and I don’t deserve you in the slightest, but I am so in love with you, I’m sorry, I can’t – “

“No, Sherlock. I need you.” John’s voice rose up, and Sherlock fell silent, staring at him. “I love you, so much. I need you more than anything, especially right now.” John cleared his throat, glancing towards the window, eyes watering. “Of course you deserve me. I wouldn’t be the man I am today without you, and I have only you to thank for that.” A tinge of bitterness was in his tone as he spoke, and Sherlock caught it, reaching to wipe the tears from John’s face, sadly beautiful. John continued. 

“It’s difficult, Sherlock, it’s just… difficult. I need time. But please, I don’t want you to think that means I don’t need you.” John reached for Sherlock, pulling him in and pressing their lips together, and murmured, “I will always need _you. _”__

“John.” Sherlock teared up at John’s words; he felt so vulnerable, so precariously in danger of ruining everything, but he cuddled against John’s neck and pushed his fear aside. He knew John needed him, that John would need help with coping, would need gentle empathy from Sherlock in the weeks and months to come. “Oh, John.” Sherlock settled gingerly into John’s embrace, making sure not to put pressure on the wound. They held each other silently as shadows swayed through the room from the window, the night air crisp as it played through their hair.

“Moriarty never knew, did he,” John mused aloud after a while, caressing Sherlock’s hair. “That you loved me. It would have helped him if he’d realized.”

Sherlock nodded against John’s skin, a sigh escaping from his lips as he breathed John in, grateful for everything in his life at that moment. A feeling of contentment washed over him with the cool night breeze.

John kissed Sherlock’s temple. “Human error, I suppose. On all of our parts, really,” he said thoughtfully. 

Sherlock nodded again. 

_Human error. ___


End file.
